Cover by LC Chase
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Those who dare to scratch the surface of ordinary, everyday life may be horrified to find a sick underbelly beneath—a nightmare world populated by villains and victims, predators and prey, where the rules of society no longer apply.
Where you’ll find people like Danny, the boy who sells himself to pay for his father’s gambling debts and ends up in a situation more twisted than he ever imagined. Or Troy, the cop whose obsession with saving a brutalized human trafficking victim turns deadly. Or Drew, the mental patient who begins to suspect his nightly delusions of abuse by his doctor are actually real. Or David, the cuckolded husband who decides the best way to get revenge is to seduce his wife’s barely legal son. Stealing Innocents is an exploration of our darkest human impulses, where sex is power, love is horror, and there’s no such thing as a happy ending. This collection contains three edited second editions stories that were previously individually published, plus one all-new story, by Lisa Henry writing as Cari Waites. |
...if you like tales that will fuck with your brain and take you to scary places you’ve never been or imagined, then check this book out.
-Prism Book Alliance
-Prism Book Alliance
An excerpt from Stealing Innocents:
Gamble Everything
Part 1: Sold
“Take off your shirt.”
This isn’t even a nice place. The carpet is worn, the lighting is dim, and it stinks of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. But I guess my dad was banned from the nice places years ago. Now he’s about to be banned from the shit places, as well.
My dad is an inveterate gambler. He can’t help himself. Once, when I was eleven, I locked his bedroom door to keep him from going out, just like he’d begged me, but I didn’t count on his sheer force of will, or on the sheer weight of him against a flimsy interior door. I’ve still got the scar on my chin from the stitches; Dad took me to the hospital and left me to get seen to while he headed for the nearest bank of poker machines.
We don’t talk about the cost, usually. We talk around it. About how we don’t have enough to cover school fees, or the power bill or, more than once, groceries. He tells me how good I am to put up with him. My mom didn’t. She walked out when I was eight, but she had her own problems. She OD’d when I was nine.
Right up until now, at least, I could say I wasn’t as fucked up as my parents.
Right up until now.
My dad owes this place twelve thousand dollars. That’s rounded down, because they’re generous like that. Except my dad doesn’t have twelve thousand dollars. We could hardly afford the bus fare here.
Which is where I come in, I guess.
Which is why I’m standing in a dingy office of a can’t-be-legal casino, and the man who runs the place has just told me to take my shirt off.
I could have walked away before now, but I didn’t. I don’t owe my dad shit, not really, but I still love him. I love him, even though I hate what he’s done to us.
“Take off your shirt, Dennis,” Mr. Carne says.
“It’s Danny.” I don’t know why I bother to correct him.
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and he’s right.
My fingers fumble with the buttons on the only decent dress shirt I own. I shrug it off. I’m okay to look at, I guess, if you like your boys on the skinny side. It’s amazing what living on the poverty line your whole life can do for your figure. Mr. Carne looks like he could stand to miss a few meals.
“How old are you?” he asks me.
“Eighteen last week.”
“Legal.” He taps his pen against his desk. “You ever been fucked?”
“No.” My voice is shakier than I want.
Mr. Carne looks me up and down. “You’d better get used to it then.”
I guess I’m hired.
Beside me, my dad starts to sob—huge, choking gulps. I don’t know if it’s with horror or relief.
I stand there, my shirt hanging from my trembling fingers, while Mr. Carne signs off on my dad’s debt. “You’re banned, Clyde. For good, this time.”
My dad snuffles.
“Danny here will be done in a month or two.” Mr. Carne smirks at my dad. “You’ll get him back in one piece.”
My dad nods, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He disgusts me. Everything about this place disgusts me, myself included.
Mr. Carne turns his smirk on me. “More or less.”
Awkward silence.
Am I supposed to say good-bye to my dad now? If this is a tearful farewell, it’s all one-sided. I’m too numb. My dad looks at me, and I suddenly see how old he is, how thin, his face covered in tears and snot. It’s the gratitude shining in his eyes that sickens me the most. He opens his mouth to say something.
“Don’t,” I tell him, because whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.
Maybe I should have just let them shoot him in the kneecaps, or the head, or whatever. He told me he wasn’t worth this, and I’m fairly fucking certain that’s the truth. But every time I try to hate him, that voice in the back of my head pipes up: But he’s Dad. I can’t hate him. I wish I could.
“Well, then,” Mr. Carne says, once it’s apparent there’ll be no heartrending scene. He picks up the phone on his desk. “We’re done.”
I stare at my feet, at the frayed carpet and the old cigarette burns.
A few moments later the door opens, and a muscle-bound bruiser in a black T-shirt two sizes too small enters. He clamps a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want no trouble, okay, kid?”
“Okay,” I tell the oversized cliché.
He turns me around and steers me toward the door.
“Wait!” my dad exclaims.
Muscles pushes me through the door.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ve changed my mind!” my dad yells out behind us. “Please, I’ve changed my mind!”
And isn’t that just typical of an addict? They’re always fucking sorry once they’re okay.
The office door closes.
***
Muscles is called Max. I wonder if that’s his real name, or if he picked it because he thought it sounded cool. I don’t ask him, though; I just sit quietly in the storeroom he puts me in.
It’s a small room. The ceiling tiles are peeling off. I’m sitting on a metal chair. Muscles rattles around there for a while, and then finds what he’s looking for: a syringe.
I almost leap out of the chair. “You don’t have to drug me, dude!”
His face cracks with a grin. “It’s a blood test, kid. He’ll wanna know you’re clean, right?”
“Right,” I say, and hold out my arm. “Have you done this before?”
“Sure.” He snorts, and I don’t know if he’s lying or not.
“So, um, I know I’m clean, but what about . . .” I don’t even want to finish that thought.
“Should have thought of that before you signed up,” Muscles offers. A quick sting, and we’re done. “Don’t go anywhere, kid.”
Right. Funny.
He locks the door when he leaves, and I wait some more.
After a while I think I even doze, but I’m sitting bolt upright when the door handle rattles and Mr. Carne walks in.
“Here’s how it is, Dennis,” he says.
“Danny.” Why do I keep doing that?
His eyes flicker in his pudgy face. “Here’s how it is, Danny. The owner, Mr. Archer, is coming out to have a look at you. If he likes what he sees, he’ll take you on himself. If not, he’ll take you to one of the clubs, understand?”
Sure. One man or a hundred. On that equation, I’m going to cross my fingers and hope Mr. Archer thinks I’m fucking gorgeous.
Mr. Carne smiles at me. “I think he’ll like you.”
“That’s, um, that’s good, right?”
Mr. Carne tilts his head as he looks at me. “Sure it is, kid,” he says, in such an amused tone that I get the sickening impression the joke’s on me.
Gamble Everything
Part 1: Sold
“Take off your shirt.”
This isn’t even a nice place. The carpet is worn, the lighting is dim, and it stinks of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. But I guess my dad was banned from the nice places years ago. Now he’s about to be banned from the shit places, as well.
My dad is an inveterate gambler. He can’t help himself. Once, when I was eleven, I locked his bedroom door to keep him from going out, just like he’d begged me, but I didn’t count on his sheer force of will, or on the sheer weight of him against a flimsy interior door. I’ve still got the scar on my chin from the stitches; Dad took me to the hospital and left me to get seen to while he headed for the nearest bank of poker machines.
We don’t talk about the cost, usually. We talk around it. About how we don’t have enough to cover school fees, or the power bill or, more than once, groceries. He tells me how good I am to put up with him. My mom didn’t. She walked out when I was eight, but she had her own problems. She OD’d when I was nine.
Right up until now, at least, I could say I wasn’t as fucked up as my parents.
Right up until now.
My dad owes this place twelve thousand dollars. That’s rounded down, because they’re generous like that. Except my dad doesn’t have twelve thousand dollars. We could hardly afford the bus fare here.
Which is where I come in, I guess.
Which is why I’m standing in a dingy office of a can’t-be-legal casino, and the man who runs the place has just told me to take my shirt off.
I could have walked away before now, but I didn’t. I don’t owe my dad shit, not really, but I still love him. I love him, even though I hate what he’s done to us.
“Take off your shirt, Dennis,” Mr. Carne says.
“It’s Danny.” I don’t know why I bother to correct him.
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and he’s right.
My fingers fumble with the buttons on the only decent dress shirt I own. I shrug it off. I’m okay to look at, I guess, if you like your boys on the skinny side. It’s amazing what living on the poverty line your whole life can do for your figure. Mr. Carne looks like he could stand to miss a few meals.
“How old are you?” he asks me.
“Eighteen last week.”
“Legal.” He taps his pen against his desk. “You ever been fucked?”
“No.” My voice is shakier than I want.
Mr. Carne looks me up and down. “You’d better get used to it then.”
I guess I’m hired.
Beside me, my dad starts to sob—huge, choking gulps. I don’t know if it’s with horror or relief.
I stand there, my shirt hanging from my trembling fingers, while Mr. Carne signs off on my dad’s debt. “You’re banned, Clyde. For good, this time.”
My dad snuffles.
“Danny here will be done in a month or two.” Mr. Carne smirks at my dad. “You’ll get him back in one piece.”
My dad nods, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He disgusts me. Everything about this place disgusts me, myself included.
Mr. Carne turns his smirk on me. “More or less.”
Awkward silence.
Am I supposed to say good-bye to my dad now? If this is a tearful farewell, it’s all one-sided. I’m too numb. My dad looks at me, and I suddenly see how old he is, how thin, his face covered in tears and snot. It’s the gratitude shining in his eyes that sickens me the most. He opens his mouth to say something.
“Don’t,” I tell him, because whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.
Maybe I should have just let them shoot him in the kneecaps, or the head, or whatever. He told me he wasn’t worth this, and I’m fairly fucking certain that’s the truth. But every time I try to hate him, that voice in the back of my head pipes up: But he’s Dad. I can’t hate him. I wish I could.
“Well, then,” Mr. Carne says, once it’s apparent there’ll be no heartrending scene. He picks up the phone on his desk. “We’re done.”
I stare at my feet, at the frayed carpet and the old cigarette burns.
A few moments later the door opens, and a muscle-bound bruiser in a black T-shirt two sizes too small enters. He clamps a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want no trouble, okay, kid?”
“Okay,” I tell the oversized cliché.
He turns me around and steers me toward the door.
“Wait!” my dad exclaims.
Muscles pushes me through the door.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ve changed my mind!” my dad yells out behind us. “Please, I’ve changed my mind!”
And isn’t that just typical of an addict? They’re always fucking sorry once they’re okay.
The office door closes.
***
Muscles is called Max. I wonder if that’s his real name, or if he picked it because he thought it sounded cool. I don’t ask him, though; I just sit quietly in the storeroom he puts me in.
It’s a small room. The ceiling tiles are peeling off. I’m sitting on a metal chair. Muscles rattles around there for a while, and then finds what he’s looking for: a syringe.
I almost leap out of the chair. “You don’t have to drug me, dude!”
His face cracks with a grin. “It’s a blood test, kid. He’ll wanna know you’re clean, right?”
“Right,” I say, and hold out my arm. “Have you done this before?”
“Sure.” He snorts, and I don’t know if he’s lying or not.
“So, um, I know I’m clean, but what about . . .” I don’t even want to finish that thought.
“Should have thought of that before you signed up,” Muscles offers. A quick sting, and we’re done. “Don’t go anywhere, kid.”
Right. Funny.
He locks the door when he leaves, and I wait some more.
After a while I think I even doze, but I’m sitting bolt upright when the door handle rattles and Mr. Carne walks in.
“Here’s how it is, Dennis,” he says.
“Danny.” Why do I keep doing that?
His eyes flicker in his pudgy face. “Here’s how it is, Danny. The owner, Mr. Archer, is coming out to have a look at you. If he likes what he sees, he’ll take you on himself. If not, he’ll take you to one of the clubs, understand?”
Sure. One man or a hundred. On that equation, I’m going to cross my fingers and hope Mr. Archer thinks I’m fucking gorgeous.
Mr. Carne smiles at me. “I think he’ll like you.”
“That’s, um, that’s good, right?”
Mr. Carne tilts his head as he looks at me. “Sure it is, kid,” he says, in such an amused tone that I get the sickening impression the joke’s on me.